


Corvidae

by clericbeastie



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Anri of Astora, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clericbeastie/pseuds/clericbeastie
Summary: At long last, Anri's impending Hollowing leads him to be drawn into the painted world of Ariandel. Without purpose, he lets the cold take him, in more ways than one.Rating and tags will update as more chapters are released.
Relationships: Sir Vilhelm (Dark Souls)/Anri of Astora
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no beta we die like men

Death is a cold affair, and Anri of Astora is more familiar with her bite than most. How many times has it been, now, that folly has swept him off his feet? Too many count, too many to mourn.

There is a dull, throbbing ache at the back of his skull, and ringing that follows a path up to the backs of his eyes, where it settles in pinpricks of agonizing light. He's not certain of how long he's been out, but then again he rarely is. His limbs are lead-heavy beneath him.

Once upon a time, he'd have been back on his feet the moment his wits returned to him, blurting out apologies like a scolded child and fumbling for his blade. Ah, but that was too long ago to fathom, now, back when there was someone on the other side of the veil to answer the call and soothe away the sting of failure.

The longer it had been since he'd buried Horace, the longer it took for him to find his footing again.

When at last he blinks the clouds from his eyes, a quiet sky peers down at him through the slit of his visor. He supposes he should be bitter that the Ashen One neglected to take him back to Firelink after whatever mishap they'd gotten themselves into, but he can't manage the emotion on instinct and doesn't much care to force himself into it. The gesture has begun to feel as hollow as he does, of late.

With great effort, he at last pushes himself onto his elbows, his head falling forward towards his chest as a wave of dizziness settles in his temples. His strained sigh billows out before him like dragons' breath.

It takes some time for the spread of endless white before him to register as snow. He's been fighting off the pressure in his skull so intensely, he'd initially believed it all to be cruel, harsh light. The longer he squints, the more he can make out the shadows of a trembling pine forest cresting over the horizon. The wind unsettles fresh flurries of snow that have settled on the jutting edges of his armor and carries it towards that distant wood, beckoning.

Try as he might, Anri can't seem to recall where he was before his most recent brush with violence, and the featureless snowbanks hold not a shred of familiarity.

He should be alarmed. Perhaps, once, he would have been. Instead of panic, the weight of resignation sinks his shoulders and curls his spine in on itself. He has no earthly idea where he is, or how to retrace steps he doesn't remember taking in the first place. It will be ages before he reaches Firelink again, if he ever does at all.

A not insignificant part of him wants to lie back down in the snow, shut his eyes and let the cold overtake him, but if the Flame hasn't let him rest so far, why would it now? A pang of guilt spreads through his chest at the thought. Despite his despondence, he has obligations to attend to. Betrothal to a Lord isn't something so callously set to the wayside. Lady Yuria had chosen him to be the Cinder's bride, and he doubts that she would allow him to mourn in peace until it has been properly consummated.

He stands with a grimace to more thoroughly examine his surroundings. There must be a landmark of some sort that he can start with, at the very least. As appealing as feeling sorry for himself in solitude may sound, he forces his chin up. Even without his former conviction, he still holds onto some shred of a proper knight's dignity.

A towering shape rises from the pine forest in the distance, too angular to be natural. That's as good a place to start as any, he supposes, and with the effort of a man with the world on his shoulders, he begins his long trek through the snow.

\--

The church juts abruptly from the surrounding trees, as if it had arisen from the ground in some hellish summoning instead of being simply built. It looms, draconian, forboding, and Anri can't help but shudder as he approaches. The great arch above the entryway gapes like an open wound.

It is unlit by anything but the glint of the snow it reaches out of, somehow appearing even colder than its surroundings. What god could possibly desire such a desolate place of worship?

Anri almost considers turning back, but to what aim? The unforgiving wind has thoroughly battered him and numbed his hands up to the wrists. Beneath his helmet, the condensation from his breath has frosted his lashes and threatened to seal his eyes shut.

He is cinder, but there's not enough warmth in him to ward off the chill that's set into his bones.

"Horace..." He mutters, half delirious. His stiff fingers fumble blindly with the pouch at his side. With his mind so clouded, he falls back on habit, though he knows it will do him no good. There is comfort in remembrance, he promised himself once, and it's still in his nature to cling to those adages. He doesn't so much grab a prism stone as he does prod at his collection until one falls to the ground. The thought that Horace might still come upon him used to bolster his resolve, but now it sits heavy in his stomach.

It's a grim reminder of how pathetic he's become.

"You."

Anri snaps to attention at the unfamiliar voice, which cuts through the howling wind like a blade. It's so gruff he might have mistaken it for the grunt of a bear, were it not so direct. Through the fog of his own self pity, he's failed to realize that he is no longer alone. A figure stands against the stone before him, nonchalant even in the presence of an armed stranger. He's tall, seemingly unbothered by the sheet of ice he's leaning against.

The sheen of his armor catches in the softness of the light, polished marble black like a raven's cold eye. He is a corvid at the heels of a dying dog, and Anri has never felt so harshly scrutinized as he does now.

The knight pushes away from the chapel wall and rises to his full height. He manages to block the entryway without truly standing before it with the command of his presence alone. When he speaks, it is in the grave tone of a minister hardened by the weight of his parish's sins.

"Thou'rt a newcomer."

It isn't a question, but Anri nods blindly to it nevertheless.

"On with it, then." He gestures to the open door with a jerk of his chin. "Lady Friede will want to greet thee proper." The knight keeps his arms folded neatly across his chest as he speaks. He gives off the impression of a stone-carved saint's effigy... or perhaps a gargoyle, fitted into the church's grand architecture as seamlessly as the spires and parapets. Stepping past him feels more like passing through a threshold than anything else.

Anri shows the knight his back. The desire to protect himself has left his body, replaced by the mindless shuffle forth, out of the snow and into the unknown.

\--

There is no fire to greet him inside the chapel. The light glowing softly about the edges of the windows comes solely from reflections off of the snow outside, dim and cold. The frost creeps in at every corner like mortar. It is a place held together by prayer, Anri thinks, the still-howling wind echoing in his ears even once he's far past the door.

He hesitates, almost turns back. But then, where would he go? Back into the woods, to the featureless plains? He feels his trepidation burning a hole in the back of his throat and pricking at the corners of his eyes. What else was there to do? Either he would be rescued yet again and spend weeks sputtering out thanks and apologies, or the gods would at last allow him the mindless, Hollow peace he's desired for so long.

"Come, Forlorn."

A voice drifts into his reverie, and Anri feels immediately overcome by it. It carries in its gentle tone the silken, honeyed promise of the warmth he's almost entirely forgotten. A woman sits in his periphery, so still he'd initially mistaken her for one of the many paintings littering the church's floors. His hand goes to the hilt of his blade out of nothing but muscle memory.

"Fear not, child. At last thine journey is at its merciful end."

He stands entranced, unmoving. Anri opens his mouth as if to respond, but no sound escapes him. It's as if some preternatural force has stopped his breath and anchored his feet to the faded stone beneath him.

A shudder tears through his bow-taught frame, and his teeth clack together pathetically.

The woman regards him without moving from her humble throne. Her hands are folded, patient and matronly. It's as if she's been expecting him, though he swears he's never seen such a figure in all his years. Kind faces and words of encouragement are not things he's accustomed to encountering in the destiny that's thrust itself upon him.

She continues on without lifting her head enough to show him her eyes.

"You find yourself now in the painted world of Ariandel, the merciful home of those such as thee. Be not troubled; the thought of a place to lie down your head and rest has long weighted upon your mind, has it not?"

As she speaks, she outstretches her hands, palms up in benediction. Anri feels as if he could vomit.

"Go now, Forlorn. Find thee a grave-site to lay down thine tired bones."

His knees give out all at once, but he hardly registers the sound of his armor clashing against the church floor. A fog creeps in at the edges of his vision and threatens to take the light from his eyes. It's too much to bear, the cool finality with which she damns him. There is no room in her tone for reasoning, but the burgeoning panic closing up his throat demands that he try.

"Aldritch-" he at last manages to croak out, but the woman shakes her head before he can continue any further.

"Consider thine duty finished, Anri of Astora."

He wants to question her. He wants to cry. He wants, above all, to fall down upon his sword and put an end to the ceaseless agony that threatens to chase away the last vestiges of his sanity.

In the end, the once-proud knight finds his footing, and leaves the church from whence he came in a daze. Relieved of his one remaining reason to live, he can do no more but stagger back out into the cruel expanse of white that birthed him into this hellish end.

\--

"He is Ash, is he not?"

Vilhelm speaks into the empty wind. He doesn't need to turn to know that Friede stands beside him on the church's stone steps. Without seeing her, he knows that her gaze follows in the same line as his, fixed upon the knight traversing the bridge before them as if marching to his execution.

"The Forlorn cannot alight flame." Her voice lacks its usual steadiness, and it gives them both pause.

Friede turns her back to it all and retreats back into her sanctum. When Vilhelm can almost no longer hear her footsteps, a command echoes its way back.

"Follow him. Ensure that this Ash finds its respite."

He obeys.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to anri suffering simulator 2: electric boogaloo

_"Horace? It's going to be okay, isn't it?" His tiny hands cling to the other boy's as tightly as his straining, screaming muscles will allow. The rope burns encircling his wrists sting even without contact. They'd taken away the bindings long ago, once it became apparent that none of the children had the strength to flee. There is dirt beneath his fingernails and in his mouth, and it traces the incessant stream of tears flowing out of him. Fear has led him to exhaustion, but not yet to hopelessness._

_"Horace? Horace!"_

_He shakes his friend's hands as vigorously as he can. They've gone cold beneath the vice of his fingertips. He does his best to rub them warm again, but the friction doesn't seem to do anything but jostle him back and forth._

_The heat of his desperate, shameful tears is the only warmth either of them have left. He tries to blink them back, causing a new cascade down his cheeks and onto his trembling arms. Another moment of prayer is all the composure he can bear before he shuts his eyes tight and screams._

\--

Anri clenches his hands in a feeble effort at holding on to the memory of physical contact. He can't quite close them all the way, and he's almost begun to forget what it's meant to feel like. The joints of his armor have begun to creak in protest as the temperature continues, impossibly, to drop further. The chill wind has whipped itself into a proper gale, and it howls past his visor like so many ravening wolves. There's a storm on the horizon, he's sure.

He's had some vague level of awareness of this fact for some time now. He just can't bring himself to act upon it.

The church is far behind him now, but the revelations granted to him within still nip at his heels and drive him ever onward through the unforgiving cold.

To be relieved of his duty... He can't begin to fathom it. Truly it must all be some manner of cruel joke. For what feels like an age, he's done nothing but press forward for the sake of his duty, clung to a promised made in hushed tones by a child who died within him long ago. The thought of vanquishing the Deep has been his last guiding light in a world where the sun itself seems to fade away.

He's not allowed himself to think of what a life without Aldritch might mean for fear of it breaking him, and now that impossibility has been thrust upon him.

The dull thud of his helmet hitting stone is the only indication that he's reached another building. His only thought is to keep moving forward, but he can't muster the strength to look up and readjust. Instead he lets his head rest against the icy wall and shudders out a sigh he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Horace..."

His throat is dry, his speech forced and delirious.

What would Horace tell him at a time such as this, he wonders? What words of encouragement might he offer? His racing thoughts come up blank, and he realizes that he can no longer recall the sound of his friend's long-gone voice.

"...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He's only granted a moment of respite before his collar is grabbed from behind and yanked, bowing his spine back.

A familiar, harsh voice speaks directly into his ear, chilling him to the bone more effectively than the gale around them ever could.

"Wandering's done you no favors, putrid Ash."

All he can do is scramble for purchase as he's dragged backward. Panic brings a fierce pang to his clouded mind and forces him back into the battle-hardened hyperawareness that he's come to depend upon.

Before he can so much as speak, he's thrown violently into the building before him. The exhaustion of despair has enfeebled his limbs, and he can scarcely lift himself off the floor before a boot between his shoulderblades shoves his face back into the unforgiving wood.

"Our Lady bade you lie thee down, did she not?"

The towering knight doesn't bother waiting for an answer, leaning his weight onto Anri's back as he speaks.

"Does this seem a fitting grave to thee?"

Anri pants beneath him as adrenaline forces a pulse back into his eardrums. Despite it all, he feels more alive than he has in ages.. The threat sharpens his focus, pushes aside the fog of doubt until all that's left is the violence he's honed. He strains to reach his sword, but because of the pressure on him he just barely falls short. The action doesn't go unnoticed, however, and earns him a cruel chuckle.

"A proper Forlorn would not deign to fight his keeper. Does some vigor alight in thee yet? No matter."

The tip of a blade fills Anri's vision, making him buck against his captor in a last attempt at self defense.

"We'll extinguish that flame of yours. Make no mistake."

All at once Anri manages to get a knee beneath him, giving him the leverage to throw his opponent from his back. The upset gives him just enough time to leap to his feet, draw his blade, regard the opposing knight-

-who has long since found his own balance, seemingly unfazed by it all.

"Ohh." He sounds almost impressed, in the same manner that a father might be touched by a child taking its first steps. His grip on his own sword is confident, effortless. It's clear by his casual stance that he doesn't consider Anri any sort of real threat, and that revelation makes his heart sink. What little bravery he'd managed to rally quickly begins to flag under that level of condescending scrutiny.

"Is this truly what you desire, Forlorn? Have you not had your fill of bloodshed?"

Anri falters, but keeps his grip on his blade. His mind is swimming, frantic. After having his world upended so many times, so rapidly, he can scarcely form a coherent thought. It's as if he's caught in a nightmare - how else could everyone he's encountered have such a grasp on what brings him so close to the precipice?

"Do you not crave a different end?"

Step by measured step, the other knight begins his approach, his posture that of a wolf approaching prey already mortally wounded. "Ariandel has opened her arms to you, yet still you cling to your foolish principles. Clearly, she thinks less of you than that."

"Stop." It's ragged and hoarse, but at last Anri finds his voice once more. "No, there's... there's been some sort of mistake. I don't belong-"

He's cut off by the knight gripping the wrist of his sword-arm hard enough to bruise even through the joints of his armor. The movement itself is so lightning-quick, his mind cannot register it in time to even attempt a parry.

Anri cries out, though whether it's born of pain or anguish he can no longer tell. One proper flex of the other man's fingers and he's forced to drop his blade, and it clatters to the ground beside him. Again, he's rendered utterly useless in the face of a threat, and despite his years of nearly tearing himself apart for the sake of honing himself as a weapon in his own right, there's nothing he can do to prevent it all.

Beneath the raven-armored knight's menace, he goes all but limp.

"Good."

The backhanded praise forces a wordless sob from his throat, which in turn earns him a cruel chuckle. The sound seems to reverberate directly from the other man's chest, and it echoes in his mind as if it had come from the inside of his own skull.

The other man uses the grip on his wrist to pull him in close, so their helmets are nearly touching and Anri can hear every calm, effortless breath he makes. In contrast, Anri's certain that his own pulse is rabbit-quick in the black knight's grasp.

"Do you see now? How your very nature lends itself to submission?"

He shakes his head and makes an effort to pull back, anything to get away from this stranger whose words ring too true for comfort. The knight scarcely seems to notice; his iron grip remains steadfast. With his other hand he sheathes his blade, freeing it to insteaed take hold of the visor of Anri's helm. His thumb slips into the slit like a snake entering a bird's nest, talonlike and intimately invasive. Anri goes weak at the knees as the helm is slowly lifted away. The idea of exposure fills his mind with a stark white panic that overrules all other rational thought.

He stares wide-eyed into the gaze of his captor, the polished steel before him betraying nothing.

"Disgusting."

The knight releases his wrist, and he crumples like the corpse he's begun to feel like. His helmet drops to the floor beside his discarded blade, just as ineffectual. Through the overwhelming weight of despair, he hears the knight's footfalls growing slowly further away, back towards the entrance of the barren structure.

"Now surrender yourself, as the painting has commanded you. I won't suffer a Forlorn blind to his lot."

Anri curls in on himself, forehead pressed to the floor. The order feels as absolute as the stone of that damned church, weighing upon him with a gravity he cannot pull away from. His hands fist in his hair. Truly, this must be hell.

A long, anguishing moment passes before he raises his head just enough to bring his hands before his face. A strand of his hair clings to one of his gauntlet's finger joints. It's a feature he hasn't had in an unfathomable amount of time. He touches his face and wants desperately to weep, but the fractured edges of his mind can't grasp at one emotion for long enough to properly express it.

In the depths of the painting, Anri is no longer Hollow.

Just Forlorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know a lot of people don't enjoy 'unmasking' dark souls characters and i'm sorry about that!! unfortunately there will eventually be an 'unmasking' of vilhelm and a brief description of my headcanon for his face, but i will do my best to avoid doing the same for anri. thank you for reading! <3


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